5AM
by Hitorah
Summary: " The animal obeys its master. What was he but a loyal hawk bound by years of training to return to that outstretched hand? " - " There was nothing negative about this place. She didn't curse this embrace like she did the names of cities and countries that had become battlefields. " -BlackEye/BlackHawk/Clintasha. Twoshot. 'CH2.Midnight' edited and put back up.-
1. 5AM

It's been quite a few years since I've dabbled in fanfiction. I blame high school for making me think it was "not cool" for a while, my first year of college and a lack of great stories to work with.

I was never a comic book girl; not that I thought they were lame but they were never around for the reading as a kid. I've always loved X-men, though, and the sight of Robert Downey JR in Avengers made me give the movie a chance. I have fallen in love with the story, writing, character and actors- most of all, the Assassins who need their own movie. (Not that it wasn't awesome to see them briefly in _Iron Man 2_ and _Thor_ but we all want more, agreed?)

I've read quite a few BlackEye/BlackHawk/Clintasha/Assassins fanfictions the past couple of days. While many are well written, I don't see many that have Natasha in character. Clint I could see having a soft spot, the way he can grin like he did at the end of the movie, but 'tasha...? No candle light romance, no wishes for a child, no open admission of feelings... It's fun to read to get the edge off of waiting for their own movie but it feels wrong at the same time. Absolutely no offense, I love reading the plots you all come up with.

This is my take at getting it down and it's called "5:00am" because that's when my 3 month-old kitten decided it would be a good idea to wake me up yesterday morning. Hey, it gave me the idea, I'm not exactly complaining.

Forgive typos I may miss, I use Wordpad since it's quick to open and I hate relying on spell/grammar checks. Also know it's completely movie based; I have no comic knowledge whatsoever.  
This is short and maybe sweet, rather different than the long-winded plots I normally go for.  
I hope you enjoy, whether you review or not~!

-once TigerShinobi, now Hitorah

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**" 5:00 AM "**

Out of a habit impossible to break, he always slept on his back. Unless someone was so crafy that they got into the home, through the traps set in the entry way and front hall (that he could disengage with a flick of his wrist), into his bedroom _and_ was skilled enough to place some sort of weapon or poison in his bed without him noticing, then god dammit, they could have his head. Until then he could sleep however he wanted.

He always slept on his back. Occasionally, his arms were behind his head, sometimes only one arm went below his neck and the other stretched out, helping some sort of injury ease. Other times yet, he crossed both arms over his chest and slept like the dead man he should have been so many times over. Those nights he felt most rested, however, he slept on his back with _her_ at his side, on her side, her back to him and her body facing the window. Did it matter what city was outside that window? Manhattan, DC, Malibu, Dallas? (So long as it wasn't fucking Budapest.)

Absentmindedly, the fingers of the arm he was so graced with her laying on trailed up and down her more slender limbs, from her elbow to her shoulder, down her obviously fit stomach to the curve of her legs; nothing more, no farther, for he could not reach (and she did not want). Turning his head to peer out the two large windows (more than large enough to be easily broken and made into escape routes) he saw there was only a touch of sunlight, a pale yellow bar against the bottom of the navy blue, black gradient of the sky. Early morning hours. The clock on the nightstand could have told him so but where was the fun in that?

Based on the light and time of year, it was around five, six in the morning. The world was no longer a monochromatic map of black, grey and pure white highlights. Pale, washed out greens began to appear on the shrubbary and the city blocks began to turn brown and tan, the color of the bricks which made them. A glance down had him looking back at her, at how the first rays of sunlight brought the vibrant red back to her hair, the tan and peach to her skin. Surely, Banner and Stark would scoff at him for referring to light only as rays and give him a long winded explanation equivalent to a college lecture. It did not matter to him, whether it was a particle or a ray, what sort of energy it used or emmitted or how it was observed; all he cared about was how the lovely force of nature returned the rich red color back to her hair where the night had turned it into a pale, animal like color, like an Irish hunting dog or a sorrel eventing horse.

Dogs and horses could be lovely creatures but this woman, the even more lovely force of nature beside him, deserved to have more grace than a mere servant to man.

Since the hell that was Manhattan (and that was just considering the Chutari invasion) she had grown her hair out again. Barton liked to believe it wasn't a coincidence that she had done the same after Budapest, when they had assigned her to try and get a leash around Tony Stark. (Thank goodness her hair was flattened to being slightly wavy; if her hair wasn't short as it had been before he preferred the controlled waves, much easier to run his fingers through those few times he got the chance.) At first he was curious as to why it was he in New Mexico and her in Malibu (and wherever else Stark's exploits had been) but then it became clear; would Stark listen to the gruff man or the provocative lady? Not even a question. _I want one,_ 'tasha had quoted with that rare chuckle meant for amusement. _That was what he said after I took down the boxing instructor. Oh, the looks on the three faces, the yell of surprise from Pepper..._

_Get in line,_ Clint would say to Tony's voice in his head.

Then again, who was he to say? Did he have a leash, a sheet of paper giving him command to the wills and wishes of the Black Widow? No, of course he didn't. No one did; that lease was kept buried deep in her person to never be retrieved, signed, _owned._

Did that bother him? No, not at all. A woman, let alone the one beside him, wasn't something to be owned like that aforementioned dog or horse. Proof of his point, even the eccentric Stark could do naught but _listen _to his beloved Pepper. The animal listens to its master. (That made Stark one _strange _pet.) Did that make _him_ a trained bird, sent off to do what the assignment entailed before returning to the outstretched arm of Natasha Romanoff, or whatever alias she used? It wasn't a bad image, both the metaphorical one and the idea of her having an arm outstretched for him to step into.

What a fantasy, Clint chided himself. Was this what the early morning hours did to him? He needed more sleep.

She shifted her weight beside him. Lethargically, Clint watched as the woman lifted her head from the pillows, took a glance out the window, rolled over, and settled her weight back down in a way that wouldn't leave her with a stiff back or neck. _Always so careful, even in her sleep._

There was a different feel in the air. Unlike cold switching to warm and his body adjusting to the change, it was the familiar feeling of being observed. Instead of jolting up and proceeding to stalk the condo with bow in hand, Barton simply turned his head to look back down at Natasha. She was listening, he could tell- those eyes weren't gently closed with genuine slumber though she was a damn good actress. (_What else should he expect?_)

The arm that was still under her curled so that he could brush his knuckles down her side, her back. Still yet, the atmosphere morphed. The room, once so free and open thanks to the uncovered windows, now began to feel closed off, the air stagnant. The umoving atmostphere brought scents to his nose that he may not have normally noticed. He knew blood and metal, dirt and death, but through it all there had always been a constant, _her_. Did being super human, someone like Steve or Banner, mean that senses were heightened? Did that include scents? Inhaling slowly, deeply, Barton couldn't help but think that being super human wouldn't be such a bad thing.

One of her arms moved slowly, more like a snake than a spider, and an open hand pressed against his chest as his ribs fell from the heavy exhale. That was what had caused the sudden shift, wasn't it, that wandering arm? A little more pressure, a bit of her body weight, and she could begin to restrict his breathing via his false ribs; that would have been her plan all along, had he been an enemy, a target she slept with to get information (it always worked, always worked). Instead, the palm remained on his sternum, her weight felt but nothing more. _Control._ The animal obeys its master. What was he but a loyal hawk bound by years of training to return to that outstretched hand?

To a normal man, the way she tilted her head beside him, her hair falling from her neck to expose the skin in waning darkness may have been seen as submission, an invitation. Such men would feel the Widow's Sting, the round of a gun, or perhaps a more physical means of death- an artery, a pressure point, the _snap_ of the neck. Submission? No, no, this woman did not _sub_mit. If anything, her eyes, still steeled and stoic, made that clear.

She _per_mit.

There was no shared look, no amorous glimpse into the other's eyes with a soft, secretive smile. Had there been Clint would have flashed an arm back to his nightstand and grabbed the gun hidden in a false pannel. The Widow's mask was perfection. Emotion was the sign of an impostor; trust him to know, a few had tried. Words (_especially _the romantic kind) were never exhanged. Like love, they were for children.

Words were so easily manipulated, misunderstood, taken out of context and turned against the speaker no matter how innocent the original topic may have been. There was no guarantee of the effect they would have on another being. Why trust such flimsy ties?

Love was no better. Emotion ate away at sanity, chipped away at one's guard. One day a man was madly in love, the next he had his teeth ground in hatred. Love always turned into hate. Love was like fire; beautiful, warm, mesmerizing but fatal in large portions. Love faded, fire burned out, hate settled in, cold took over. Now, he wasn't sure about folks who came from other parts of the globe but he wasn't fond of the cold.

Pressure from the hand lessened and he leaned to one side. Any hidden weapon on her would be fatal if drawn, he was that close. Instead, those bright (only in color) eyes lidded fractionally. She was assessing him. Her head tilted back, obscuring her eyes from view. At the same time his teeth grazed the side of her neck- only because she had graced him with the chance. While he trailed up to her jaw and back down, he dared not touch her jugular or risk a reflex attack. The hand on his sternum remained where it was; his choice had been the right one. That arm of his still under her curled, his wrist flexing so that he could string his fingers through her hair like a thick comb. For his own safety, though that phrase seemed out of place, his free hand slowly moved from where it lay by his side until the palm of his hand found the curve of her waist under the black civilian shirt. He nipped a slow line across the curve of her face, her jaw, dancing over the pit of her throat, avoiding that untouchable skin with all but his breath. Curling his fingers so they made impressions on her skin, the hand at her waist applied pressure. He did not force her on her back like a less patient man. Rather, he asked her to and she responded by sliding that hand on his chest up so it curved behind his neck.

No, he didn't want love, romance or any of that fire; for if he never loved her he could never hate her.


	2. Midnight

So. This little thing here has turned out to be as unruly as the woman whose POV it's through. She's one hell of a trip trying to get right. I submitted it a few days ago but wasn't 100% satisfied, so I took it down before the end of the same day.

I've talked with a few close friends who share the same opinion on the Clint/Natasha pairing, and the significant other who can beat sense into me better than anyone.  
After a couple days of thought, one of which was spent _sky high_ thanks my body reacting to a vaccine, I've decided to go ahead and put it back up. I put too much effort (a full week) into it to just take it down and never show it off.

To anyone who has read _5AM_ but not this yet, let me say this now- if you want the more loving Natasha Romanoff, click that "back" or "home" button on your browser now. This here, both chapters, is about the bond_ I_ feel they have; a dark contract where love in any traditional sense is not an option. Not to say there isn't a connection, this is just my opinion. It is fan_fiction_, after all.  
I _have_ altered this slightly, a few lines and changed diction here and there, to try and make 'Tasha seem as "connected" as Clint did in chapter one. That's all that's different, mainly at the end, as well.

Thank you for your reviews and hits,  
-Hitorah

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**" Midnight "**

Sleep came anywhere, anytime, when her body was running on shallow gasps of air and emergency energy and needed a chance to recover. Her craft, her skills had her shipped off to the corners of the Earth, from sophistication and class to the depths of hell and back. Sleep was a treasure rarely enjoyed and even less so on an actual mattress. (So far as she knew, there was no motel room with a bed in Hell. Perhaps she hadn't been dead on the table long enough to get a good look around.)

Whether or not she was on a Serta or hidden at the top of a stack of crates in a warehouse, sleep came when her back was pressed against a wall. The wall would reflect to her any echoes, tell her if any soul dared approach. While _having one's back against the wall_ was the English phrase for being cornered, defeated, out of options, she saw it as a strength. Keeping one's back to a wall evened the odds in battle; the enemy could only be above, in front and to the sides, never behind, never from an area or direction out of her immediate range of sight. The element of surprise was gone for the enemy; it was never gone for her.

As much as it infuriated her to know (_know, not admit, for she had never been so foolish to assume otherwise_) she was human, female, the biologically frailer of the species. Surprise was her greatest weapon (save for the lovely 9-millimeter on her hip or the electricity on her wrist). Cornered by those who hadn't a clue who she was, she would contort her face into one of primal fear. Biological triggers in males would be set off; _protect the woman, protect, protect_, those signals would say. Then she would sway them until her weapon found their leader (_"See this? One more move and he dies."_) and her feet an escape.

Should she be trapped by those who knew her identity, her capabilities, one thing was for certain; they would come in from the front, top and sides. (Just as they had in Manhattan and Budapest.)

Two fresh clips were always in her guns, two fresh clips were always unloaded. Front, top, sides- methodically, quickly, she had the area cleared (or cleared enough) to swing around, to force the opposition against that same wall, her ally in causing their deaths, her ally in escape.

Yes, walls were a strength.

Her method of sleeping worked best when she was alone. Inevetably, on assignments there were nights when she would smile a false smile, arch her brows and manipulate her eyes, her voice in allure and desire, all to get what she needed, whether it was information, evidence, or the chance to take the bastard's life. Some days the target was dead before his body hit the (unmoved) bed. On others, she would have to settle for the sex, the deed, and be forced to "sleep" next to the other person. She would rest, only to have her eyes open when it was time for her to grab what she needed- and to go, to slip away without so much as whisper. (Those men meant nothing, not even the money she was paid for the job. Absolute animals. If she ran across any one of them again she planned to give them as many scars as they had given her lecherous looks, touches, whispers... horrible, sloppy whispers.)

She never truly slept when her back wasn't against a wall. Her eyes would close and her body would rest but her consciousness would always wake her one to two hours later, like a guard dog wanting to warn its master. _Observe, observe_, check that the area was safe, ensure the weapons were on her person, and only then could she semi-relax once again. It was a cycle, one that continued so long as the sky had stars.

There were no exceptions, she thought, even as it registered in the back of her mind that she wasn't alone on the bed, that there was an arm under her neck, someone beside her. (He wasn't an exception, no, but she couldn't deny she dozed a heartbeat faster with his side against her back, just like one of those lovely walls...)

Four times now she had woken; midnight, two, four, now late five and going on six in the morning (there was a clock on the nightstand that told her so). Unlike previously, now she could see a faint band of yellow beginning to peer over the horizon, the local buildings. Some days she wondered what city was outside. Not today. Outside those two large windows, plenty large enough to use as a getaway, she could see a familiar almost-skyline that ended with the thin Washington monument in the distance. So strange it was that the nation's capitol was such an easy place to stay hidden. Perhaps SHIELD had opertaives nearby helping with that.

That arm under her curled and his fingers traced a path down her arm, stomach and the top of her left leg. _He's awake._ She did not weigh enough to hinder his arm, his hand from trailing farther. Stopping had been his own decision.

With her eyes all but closed, she adjusted her weight so she could roll over, turning her back on the window which would begin to become brighter as the morning went on. She had gotten a quick glimpse of him before she settled back down, closed her eyes once again. Yes, he was awake, his eyes cast up in thought. There was a certain fog that would be in his gray eyes if those thoughts were detrimental, self loathing ("_How many agents-_""_Clint, don't do this._"); thankfully, she saw none of it.

Natasha paid careful attention to her breathing; too strong and it would be obvious she was awake. Too weak and he would know she was acting, or wonder if she was ill. No, no... Medium, gentle breaths were needed. They both gave the illusion of continued slumber and calmed her heart. The latter was becoming a challenge; his actions, his fingers trailing down her back, were beginning to affect his heart. Her own did the same, each beat coming out not at an erratic speed but more primal, _stronger_, the sound almost echoing in her ears. Strange, how a simple change in physiology could mean so much. (Lovely how she noticed, how she knew to use it.)

Though she prided herself in having great control over herself, both mind and body, there were moments when her thoughts escaped, like dogs off of a leash, and were free to wander. Who could know what they would conjure up before she brought them back. Before her closed eyes flashed dozens of images; all of them were lopsided smirks, worn by men both drunken and sober. Some were long memories set on fast forward, where the faces had quickly contorted into a grimace as she pulled her knife, while others vanished from sight after coming closer, _closer_; by that point on those nights she had closed her eyes and paid little attention. Instinct alone was enough; where her body reacted, her mind forgot. They were two separate enteties and she would rather keep it that way.

There was no smile, smirk or any other quirk on Barton's mouth. There never was, not during moments like this. Somehow, that put her at ease. A smirk, a smile, something deep in her saw them as a challenge, and she had to respond; her business front would come forward and she would be cold, crafty, unwilling to do anything but _win_. Fight or flight was strong in her. It was a strange sensation, to be at rest, wanting neither to run nor fight... (Her eyes may have drifted closed, she may have taken a silent breath, she may have found pleasure in a brief moment where she just _was_; no plans to escape, kill, jump, flee-)

Instinct. It was very difficult to describe, to picture. Where she lay right then, she had both arms curled close to her chest, nature's way of defending her heart, her lungs. Moving slowly, she lifted her head, uncurled one of her arms, and slid her hand down the arm her head rested on, down his shoulder, his collar bone, to his sternum. His chest came down slowly as he exhaled a deep breath she hadn't realized he had taken. He turned his head to look over at her. No smile, no dare, no challenge...

Instinct was a cat, a creature that mesmerized with its eyes and its purr. Normally her mind shunned that cat, treated it as a lower form of human nature used only when she wanted to forget the faces and advances of a "client." Now that cat lept onto her shoulder, purred in her ear, brushed its cheek against her chin, curled its tail around her neck (where she could feel her blood rushing, pulsing). _Pull him closer, closer_, it said. _You know your mind agrees_.

The cat was right. There was no smirk, no challenge, nothing to trigger the locks that were for her own protection. Too much, they had been through too much; even so, if he hit a trigger, she wouldn't be able to stop her retaliation. (Even though she would want to, fuck, perhaps she would even be _sorry_.)

He turned onto his side, facing her; she kept her hand where it had been on his sternum simply because she wanted to. She tilted her head, very slightly, to brush away the longer locks of her hair. (It had grown out again, hadn't it?) Behind her, that arm of his bent and his hand ran through her hair, something he must have enjoyed doing. There _was _quite a soothing quality to it, wasn't there? Some sort of ingrained calm, like the eye of a storm... Before she mused on that for long, he was moving again. On nights where it was anyone else leaning across the bed (_which she just now noticed was against the wall...had he moved it?_) it was around now her mental locks engaged. The night became like one described in a novel- not in detail, no, but how there was no _physical _sensation to remember. It was recalled in words, phrases, breif descriptions; she did _not _want to remember their faces, their voices, their sloppy touch. She shut them out, pulled every ounce of her awareness into the back of her mind only to be released once morning came.

She almost wanted to chuckle at that last thought, at the sunlight beginning to peer over the horizon.

She may very well have chuckled and then been asked to explain why had there not been the familiar feeling of his teeth grazing her neck. Every train of thought she had vanished in a thick fog and her head tilted back without being told, exposing more of her skin. Those teeth went up her neck, across the thickest part of her jaw, her chin... She reveled in the rare thrill of knowing she would be able to pull this memory up at anytime, that it wouldn't be discarded along with the many other faces. (No.. she wouldn't forget his face.) At the back of her mind she noticed that he carefully avoided her jugular, the pit of her throat- a smart move. The throat was a delicate place. He could have easily brought a hand up and grabbed her neck to cut off her breathing, bloodflow. Any sort of touch to the throat could have her reaching for the knife hidden on her side; he knew that. He _had_ to have known that. Her hand still on his sternum, fingers curled into his shirt, reminded him.

His next move brought his free hand to her waist; with one arm behind her and the other on her side, she was essentially trapped. Not trapped, no, that word had a negative connotation. There was nothing negative about this place. She didn't curse this embrace like she did the names of cities and countries that had become battlefields. His fingers found her skin under her black shirt just a breath away from that hidden blade. That hand applied pressure, enough for her to feel but not enough to move her; _Onto your back._

He knew her so well, _too_ well, as if his actions hadn't proved that by now. She accepted the invitation, trailing her hand away from his sternum and wrapping it around his neck. On her back, the feeling of relative security returned; it wasn't like that with those men with drunken faces. The cat hissed;_ Not them, no. This one is better. Trustworthy._ Agreeing with the thought, she focused on curling her hands around his neck so she could bring his mouth down to her own.


End file.
